


Deamhain

by tumbling_into_chaos



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: (The mind control isn't on any of the Main Characters btw), (and it's very clumsy), (sort of), Blood, Dark Skulduggery Pleasant, Dexter Vex in Pain, Fights, Gen, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Edited This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, Magic, Mind Control, Missions Gone Wrong, Sensitives, Skulduggery Pleasant Fic Exchange 2019, The Dead Men (Skulduggery Pleasant), This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, and, surprise attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21747946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumbling_into_chaos/pseuds/tumbling_into_chaos
Summary: ((Rated M for violence))The Dead Men have been promised time off.Being sent to a training camp to show off to the new recruits seems close enough, and in spite of lasting tensions, it seems like they can relax for once.Until they can't.-----“We might have a problem” Saracen said, and his voice was too low, and too dark.Then he stood up, raised his voice enough for the recruits to hear him. “It appears that we are be under attack.”
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Skulduggery Pleasant Fic Exchange 2019





	Deamhain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swordfaery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordfaery/gifts).



To the new recruits, watching the Dead Men fight was like watching Gods.

Their movements were quick and precise, not ounce of energy going to waste.

Saracen Rue and Dexter Vex had been the first two spar, moving rapidly and effectively, too fast for the recruits to follow, and in the end, somehow, Rue had landed in the dirt. The two man had left after that, to god only knows where, and Ghastly Bespoke and Larrikin had taken their place in the middle of the training grounds to sparr, and the recruits watched in awe. Their movement were in perfect sync, punches avoided or redirected, elemental magic caught and fired back, parrying, counter-attacking, dogging, all in one fluid move. It looked like a dance.

Anton Shudder was standing at the side of the field, Skulduggery Pleasant besides him.While Shudder stood straight, watching the fight with crossed arms and narrowed eyes, Pleasant was leaning against a tree, his head titled.

On the other side of the field stood Hopeless, arms raised to just above his belly button, prepared to step in, with magic or without, at a moment’s notice.

Dexter Vex and Saracen Rue had left a few minutes prior; the recruits didn’t know where to, nor did they bother to ask when there was another fight to watch.

Larrikin hurled a ball of fire Bespoke, and the moment he let go off it Bespoke caught it in his hands, sending it back towards Larrikin, following up with a punch to Larrikin’s throat.

Larrikin turned just in time to avoid them, then kicked out towards Bespoke, forcing the him to take a step backwards.

He didn’t smirk or grin the way the recruits often did at every little victory. Instead, his face remained ceased in a frown, sweat running down his temples and drenching his shirt. He hadn’t won yet.

Bespoke punched out again, three times in quick succession; left, right, left, and the last one his Larrikin in the shoulder.

Larrikin stumbled, then caught himself and send another ball of fire towards Bespoke. This time, Bespoke waved it to the side, taking a quick step forwards, aiming his next kick at Larrikin’s shinbone.

Before he had finished the move, Larrikin pulled his leg to the side and swiped Bespoke’s foot to the side. That did it; Bespoke fell to the ground, dust rising up at the impact, and the recruits started cheering.

Larrikin held out a hand and Bespoke took it, letting his friend pull him up.

“You did it again,” Larrikin said, just loud enough for the first few of the recruits to hear, and this time he sounded delighted, and decidedly smug. “Told you I’d get you at that.”

Bespoke huffed, but didn’t otherwise reply.

Both of them made their way over to Hopeless, and after a quick nod from him returned to the middle of the field. This time Pleasant and Shudder joined them; Pleasant and Bespoke standing next to each other, Larrikin and Shudder opposing them.

Shudder turned to the recruits, letting his gaze roam over them, and they fell silent in a terrified sort of awe. While Shudder was considered a war hero, but he was still a gist user; that made it hard not to be frightened.

“Now, I’m sure you have all had some training in solo fighting.” His voice was deep and booming, and demanded attention from all around him. “But the truth is, out there you won’t be fighting alone. There will be two, or three, or ten people coming at you at once and you need to be able to fight with two or three or ten people of your own if you want to survive that.”

Larrikin grinned at the recruits. “Watch and learn, young canon fodder.”

Ghastly snorted, and then the Dead Men turned back to face each other. There a moment of tense silence — then the fighting began.

If watching the Dead Men fight each other was like watching Gods, watching them fight with each other was like watching forces of nature, hurricanes and forest fires, and then, how could one beat the other?

They fought side by side like that was what they were born to do, blow after blow, punch after punch; Pleasant attacking where Bespoke left him openings, Larrikin parrying attacks aimed Shudder, the latter using the chance to throw punched at Bespoke; Pleasant stepping to the side for Bespoke to take his place without breaking their flurry of blows, Shudder and Larrikin attacking from both sides in perfect sync, making it impossible to evade their assault.

But while a fear of Anton Shudder had been drilled into all of the recruits, the most unsettling one to watch was Pleasant. His attacks were ruthless, and where the others seemed focused on evasive tactics, on technique and skill, there was a brute strength, and a fury to his movement that was frightening to see.

All of the recruits had heard stories about him; the miracle soldier, the skeleton — A true Dead Men.

In all of theses stories he had been awe inspiring, and frightening, and in all of them he had been loud.

But since entering camp, not one of the recruits had him speak and somehow, the silence made him even more terrifying.

Anton Shudder was deadly, but Skulduggery Pleasant was cold, and determined, and ruthless even to his friends. It was him who made the recruits squirm, made them want to avert their gazes. Made them afraid.

And in a way, that made it a relief to all of them when Hopeless broke the fight up after good ten minutes, throwing worried glances at Pleasant on his own.

“Another thing to consider,” Hopeless said, as he turned towards the recruits, his voice much more quiet than Shudders’s, and higher in pitch, but commanding attention in a similar way. “Is that you don’t want to loose all your teeth in a training fight. You might need them later.”

Behind him, Larrikin nodded. “It’s true. I once had to bite off someone’s finger.”

“Well, don’t go biting of Ghatsly’s finger,” Hopeless said absentmindedly as he checked first Larrikin over with quick precise movements, then moved on to Shudder. “I think that’s quiet enough for today.” He frowned. “And Larrikin. Be more careful with your arm. That looks ugly.”

Larrikin shrugged, then grinned. “You should’ve seen the other guy.” Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned to Anton. “Food?”Anton gave a wordless nod, and after a sigh and a ‘Go on then’ from Hopeless, the two men started making their way off the training field.

Hopeless turned to Ghastly next. The skin around his eye was tinted pink and beginning to swell, and when Hopeless reach out to touch it, Ghastly flinched back. Hopeless frown deepened. “How bad?” he asked, riasing his hand again with his fingers spread, ready to apply his magic if need be, but Ghastly shook his head. “I got away alright, just need to keep it cool for a while. I’m more worried about Anton. He doesn’t miss that often, usually.”

Hopeless shrugged. “He isn’t this afraid to loose control, usually either.”

“I suppose,” Ghastly said, worry still clear in his voice, then breathed out a sigh and turned to the direction Larrikin and Anton had walked off to. His gaze remained firmly fixed on Skulduggery. “You coming? I’m starving, and there’s food supposed to be that way.”

“Give us a moment,” Hopeless said, before Skulduggery had any chance to answer. Ghastly hesitated, giving Skulduggery a chance to protest, but when nothing came, he sighed again and followed the other two; walking just fast enough to catch up.

When he was sure they were out of hearing range, and the recruits that had been watching had cleared out, Hopeless turned to Skulduggery, looking him over in much the same way he had done with the others earlier, voice purposefully quiet and dripping with concern. “Are you okay?”

There was a beat of silence. When Skulduggery answered his voice was sharp, dismissive. “Quit asking.”

Hopeless opened his mouth to say something more, but before he could get another word out, Skulduggery had turned around and was following Ghastly, his posture straight, his step brisk, and once more stubbornly silent.

Hopeless went after them with a sigh.

* * *

Dexter and Saracen were already in the canteen by the time the others arrived, sitting at a table to the far left corner to give them at least some privacy from the recruits that filled the other tables. They were munching on something that looked vaguely like mashed potatoes and dead squirrel, and tasted like it had been rolled in the mud before landing on their plates.

“So,” Dexter said, chewing on particularly tough a piece of meat, pulling a face at the taste, “did you kick Anton’s ass?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Larrikin said, and set down his own plate beside Dexter, stuffing his mouth with the potato-like sludge. Then, still chewing, he added: “And no, they didn’t.”

“We didn’t.” Ghastly confirmed. “Hopeless was so afraid of what we’d do to him that he stopped us.”

Dexter’s gaze flickered to Skulduggery, who stood silently behind Ghastly, his arms crossed, posture tense, and he couldn’t help but wonder how much truth there was to Ghastly’s joking.

Anton either didn’t care, or didn’t notice. He snorted instead. “Sure, Bespoke. Believe what you will.”

Larrikin frowned at that. “No, he shan’t. He thinks he would have beaten us, Anton. He wouldn’t.”

Anton sat down next to Larrikin, letting his plate fall to the table with a loud thud. He looked at Larrikin out of the corner of his eye. “Of course not. But let them keep their illusion; it’s the only place they’ll ever beat us. I’m sure their self-confidence could use a little boost.”

Now it was Ghastly’s turn to snort. “Have you met Skulduggery?”

Skulduggery should have said something to this, anything, and it wasn’t hard to imagine his mocking agreement but — But once more Skulduggery remained silent, staring at the others with an unreadable expression, and Dexter fought back a sigh.

He could see the same thought on the other’s faces’s.

It was Anton who finally broke the silence that followed, continuing the conversation as though there had never been an awkward pause, nervous glances. “You’re right. Larrikin, don’t let them keep their illusions,” he said, and cleared his throat, then continued. “Ghastly, you would have lost.”

“Would not,” Dexter said, chewing loudly, voice too high and too cheerful in a desperate bid to seem unbothered.

“Would too!” Larrikin was banging one fist on the table as he spoke, and somehow, even for him, it seemed exaggerated.

“Would not.”

Hopeless raised one eyebrow at their exchange. “Why are you still going on about this?” Then, looking at Dexter. “And why do you keep defending Ghastly?”

Dexter leaned back in his seat, shrugged, and did not grin. “I just really want Anton to get beaten. Plus, Ghastly is my tailor. Never piss off your tailor.”

Ghastly nodded. “I like that. It’s a good motto.”

Behind him, Skulduggery shifted his weight, and for a second — For a split second they thought he was going to say something.

He didn’t.

Larrikin broke the following silence again after a few beats, a forced, faked grin on his face. “I don’t know. I think I like ‘Don’t piss of the gist user’ better.”

Dexter folded his arms over his chest. “Well, he gets to win every time. That’s unfair.”

“Maybe I’m just better than you.”

“No, you’re not.” Sarcen spoke with so much conviction that Dexter almost agreed with him on principle before catching himself.

“I know things. And one of them is that I am better than all of you.”

Dexter snorted at that, and Ghastly rolled his eyes, and Larrikin shook his head, and they all pretended that they didn’t notice the lack of response from Skulduggery.

“Can’t be,” Larrikin said, but he was trying to fill a role that wasn’t his; it showed in his voice. “I am sorry to inform all of you that our dear friend Saracen Rue has lost his powers. Now, that he is entirely without use to us -”

“Hey!”

“To us except Dexter -”

“Not good enough.”

“- To most of us -”

Saracen shook his head. “No. I’m not satisfied.”

“-To some of us,” Larrikin said, but Saracen cut him off again.

“No, no, I don’t think I like where you’re going with this,” he said, and Larrikin shoved a finger in his face.

“Now you ruined it. I was gonna hold this whole dramatic speech, and now you ruined it. Are you happy now, Saracen Rue?”

Saracen frowned at that. “Why do you keep using my full name?”

Larrikin shrugged. “It sounds appropriately dramatic.”

“It sounds appropriately stupid.”

Saracen gaped at Hopeless. “Did you just call my name stupid?”

Hopeless, somehow, managed to appear entirely earnest. “I would never.”

Saracen nodded. “Right. I -” He froze, mid-sentence and let out a soft gasp. His cheerful, self-assured demeanour dropped, his brows ceased into a frown. He pushed his chair back from the table, and for a second something darker hushed over his face, gone too quickly to identify. His hand jerked to his gun and his gaze flickering to Skulduggery, to the other Dead Men, then to the recruits. Back to Skulduggery.

“We might have a problem” he said, and his voice was low, and too dark.

He stood up, raised his voice enough for the recruits to hear him. “Do you have your weapons?”

There was a beat of silence, followed by confused murmurs, followed by a quick succession of “yes, sir”s from all throughout the room.

Saracen fell back to his chair, then pulled a face and seemed to think better of it, standing back up. “We better prepare.”

Ghastly leaned over to him, his forehead wrinkled in concern. “Saracen. What’s going on?”

Saracen’s gaze flickered to Skulduggery, like he was expecting more questions from his side, but the skeleton remained silent.

So Saracen looked at Ghastly, his lips pressed to thin line and spoke louder again, just enough for everyone in the room to hear him. “It appears that we are be under attack.”

As soon as he had finished that sentence, the door burst open.

The Dead Men were on their feet in seconds, opening fire the second men, all clothed in white robes, started pouring through the door.

The recruits seemed to catch on quickly, firing their own weapons; bullets, energy bolts, fire, whatever their magic had to offer and the smell of gunpowder and ozone filled the room. The men in white, though, kept going, unperturbed by the death of their own people — For every body hitting the ground, two more seemed to pour into the room, and after only a few minutes Dexter needed to reload. He cursed under his breath, even after he resumed firing. Just considering the sheer number of intruders it didn’t look good for them — The other side had not yet opened fire while the recruits running out of bullets, and Dexter knew his own stack wouldn’t last much longer.

A few of the recruits had started toppling tables, building makeshifts shields and barricades, discarding their weapons when they ran out of ammunition, ducking behind the furniture. Good thinking.

And yet, there were still more man in white pouring into the room.

The once furthest into the room raised their hands, and the air around them began to shimmer.

As soon as they noticed, the Dead Men - and some of the recruits - started focusing their fire on them, but once more each man they shot was replaced within the second, and after only a few minutes a dome of soft silver had formed around the man in white; they had erected a barrier, half out of bodies, half of magic, and bullets and spells bounce off it, useless and entirely wasted.

As soon as they realised this, the Dead Men pulled back into the shadows, out of the direct line of vision of the men in white at least. The recruits, though, kept firing, wasting energy and ammunition, and Dexter had to bite his tongue to keep himself from ordering them to stop.

But the invaders didn’t know about the Dead Men’s presence here and it would be stupid to give their advantage away like that.

Behind the barrier, entirely unbothered by the continued assault, a man stepped forth, his white robe decorated with elaborate red symbols. He walked up to the edge of the barrier, then stopped. He spread his arms wide in a mock welcoming gesture. “Children.”

God. A surprise attack, stupid recruits, and now obnoxious enemies. That day just kept getting better.

“I know our appearance frightens you. But there is nothing to be afraid off.”

Dexter frowned. What?

“It is not to late for you to be saved. Join our ranks, and become part of a new world. Surrender, and you will be granted a quick death.”

Dexter’s gaze flickered over to Skulduggery. His gaze was fixed on the man in white, his hands on his pistol. Unmoving. No signal from him yet, no sign to attack.

Dexter allowed his gaze wander through the room; Saracen, Anton, Ghastly, Larrikin had all taken stances similar to his own, but Hopeless was pressed to the wall, careful to remain in the shadows and slowly inching toward the men in white. His muscles were tense, his fingers clenched around his pistol. It seemed to all intends and purposes that he had a plan.

Dexter exhaled, close to a sigh of relief. Good.

Then the noise of muffled curses and furniture being scraped over the ground drew his attention back to the other side of the room and he saw one of the recruits climbing out from behind his barricade.

Or not. 

Apparently the kid had decided to play spokesman.

He was walking towards the shield with long steady strides, his shoulders squared, his head high, and Dexter would have applauded his courage if it hadn’t been overshadowed by his extreme stupidity.

The kid stopped standing nose to nose with the leader, separated only by a thin veil of magic, and for a moment they remained like that.

Then the kid turned his head and spit at the other man’s feet. “Fuck you.”

The other recruits started cheering.

Idiot, idiot kids.

The man in white inclined his head in a mockery of grief, or disappointment, and it made Dexter like him even less.

“Very well, then. But remember, you brought this upon yourself.”

Then the man took a step back again, and seemed to be absorbed by masses of white robes.

There was some movement in the middle of the group of intruders.

A moment later, there was a sharp hiss from Hopeless, followed by a quiet: “Shit.”

And then he was moving towards the barrier at lightning speed; pushing against it, to no effect. He turned to Skulduggery, his eyes wide. “We need to get through that barrier, now.”

Before Skulduggery, before any of them had the chance to act, there was a mangled scream from behind the barriers, and another kid jumped up forth. His eyes looked glassy. His lips were pulled back. He was, Dexter noted, growling. He let out another scream, or growl, or battle cry, and launched himself at the first kid, sinking his teeth deep into his comrades arm.

For a fraction of a second the world seemed to freeze.

Then the cry was echoed, again and again and all through the room, and Dexter watched with wide eyes as the recruits started tearing into each other, turning from disciplined, well trained, to mindless and driven by bloodlust within seconds; abandoning weapons and style and attacking with nought but brute strength. He was fairly certain he saw some of them foaming at the mouth.

“Hopeless.” Ghastly’s sharp voice snapped him out of his shock, and Dexter turned back to face the others, careful to keep part of his attention the fighting recruits.

“What’s going on?”

“They have sensitives. Somehow -” Hopeless broke off, shook his head. Somewhere in the background someone screamed in pain, others screamed in fury. It forced Hopeless to raise his voice. “I don’t know how, but they’re making them turn on each other.”

“But it’s not working on us?” Larrikin asked, and his gaze flickered to Anton, Dexter, finally settled on Skulduggery.

Instinctively Dexter’s hand flew up to his temples but he forced himself to lower them again and to answer. “We have psychic shields.” It was getting harder to be heard over the screams and cries, over the noise of both tables and bones being broken.

Hopeless nodded, and had to raise his voice even further. The stench of blood filled the air. “They can’t get through our layers of protection.” He licked his lips, looked over at the man in white again. “But we need to break that barrier.”

“Well if anyone got any ideas for that” Ghatsly said. He was damn well close to shouting now, and Dexter could still barely understand him. “This would be the right moment to spit them out.”

And that, finally, seemed to have been too loud.

One of the sensitives’s head’s had whipped around and he was now staring at the Dead Men. Then he opened his mouth and turned to the man besides him.

A second later, the recruits seemed to freeze mid fighting. They all turned their heads in unison, and then their bodies. They now, too, where staring at the Dead Men.

They looked various stages of deranged, and various stages of hurt. Most where bleeding, some even missing fingers or whole patches of skin.

All were fuming.

All looked ready to fight.

Ghastly, who had been standing closest to the recruits, took a step back. “I don’t like this.”

“Me neither,” Larrikin said, chewing on his lower lip. Hesitated. “But we can’t hurt them.” And he even sounded like he meant it.

But Dexter knew that, even though he had a point, if it came hard on hard he’d kill to protect himself, or his brothers. All of them would.

Still. They shouldn’t kill innocents, and they shouldn’t kill their own people, and Dexter put his pistol back in it’s holster — with the recruits reduced to foaming animals his fists would do. Knocking them out would do.

He knew that Skulduggery’s fingers remained firmly wrapped around his pistol, that he was ready to draw at any given moment, but before he had the chance say anything about it, the recruits charged.

The first recruits launched himself at the Dead Men with a scream.

A blow to the head knocked him clear out, but then there was already another taking his place, and from then on it was all quick hits, steps to the side, punches aimed at the recruits heads; elbow, knee, fist; duck and attack again. The sound of bones breaking and flesh hitting on flesh filled the room, underlaid by the recruit’s growls. There was no time to pause or breath; and soon Dexter’s breath was going heavy, his heartbeat thundering loudly in his own ears.

He ducked under a blow to the head, caught a fist to his stomach instead and stumbled backwards, bit back a curse.

The Dead Men were being slowly forced closer to the shield by the sheer number of enemies, and Dexter knew that it wouldn’t be long until they wouldn’t have any ground to give; no room to manoeuvre, duck, defend themselves.

They would soon have to draw their guns, then.

He knew Skulduggery was waiting for that moment; saw his hand twitching to his gun, and part of him was worried, and part of him was terrified, but he had time for neither right now. He was gasping for breath, muscles beginning to protest the exertion, and his heartbeat was thundering in his ears, louder than the recruits cries of fury and yet, somehow, not loud enough to drown out the sound of bones breaking, of bodies hitting the ground.

He fist caught his jaw, and the taste of iron filled his mouth. He spit out a mouth full of blood, blindly threw his elbow in the direction the hit had come from — A wet thud, a choked scream, and then the sound of bones breaking, and Dexter knew his attacker had gone down beyond out a doubt.

But he had taken another step back, and out of the corner of his eyes he could see Anton, his back pressed to the shield.

Another recruit took a swing, aimed at Anton, and without thinking Anton took a step back, and —

And passed right through the shield.

Anton froze.

The recruit’s fist hit the dome of silver, and for a second Dexter thought he would pass as well, but the recruit’s hand hit the dome of silver and then stopped, and he howled out in pain.

Anton stared.

Dexter blinked.

And then Anton shifted his stance — He squared his shoulders, gritted his teeth, and it took Dexter a moment to catch on. Oh, he thought.

He found he couldn’t look away, now that he knew what was coming, his gaze glued to Anton, his eyes wide.

Anton let out a shaky breath.

And then he unleashed his gist.

It screamed as it tore itself out of his chest, and the shield that had kept bullets out was now keeping the gist inside, fuelling its rage. It seethed, curled its claws and then its gaze found its victims. It growled, and then it tore into the soft flesh of their invaders with vigour, began ripping off arms and legs, and then heads before they even had the chance to scream.

It covered the ground in brutally mutilated corpses and filling the air with the stench of death and the sound of skin and flesh being torn apart.

The attack didn’t let up though. Recruits were still coming at them, still attacking, and the Dead Men kept fighting; kept hitting and punching, and ducking, and Dexter had to jump back to avoid a blow aimed at his head, answered with a punch to the stomach on his own that had the recruit stumbling backwards.

And then, behind them, the shield dropped.

The recruits seemed to freeze mid-movement. For a second Dexter dared hope that maybe, somehow, Anton had gotten all of them, that the fight was over and that --

The recruit’s heads snapped around in unison, in a different direction this time. Anton.

Dexter cursed under his breath. He tried his best to block their way, saw Ghastly and Larrikin making similar attempts, but there where too many of them, too few of the Dead Men, and when Dexter glanced over his shoulder the gist was already tearing into recruits’s bodies, ripping off limbs and tearing out bones and flesh and internal organs.

The smell of blood hung heavy in the air, and screams of pure pain and terror echoed through the room, and Dexter felt sick.

Being killed by a gist was bloody, and painful, and Dexter wouldn’t wish it on anyone, least of all these kids.

But most of the recruits were pulling back to Anton. They wouldn’t be able to stop them. And this, he realised, this was their chance.

Dexter’s gaze flew to Saracen, then to Skulduggery.

The latter gave him a short nod, and that was all the permission he needed.

His elbow hit a recruit’s head, knocking them out, and then Dexter took a step back; out of the line the Dead Men had formed and closer to the men in white. Saracen backed out beside him.

“Got you six,” he said, and Dexter nodded his thanks.

With most recruits attacking Anton, and behind the additional line of defence the other Dead Men formed, it didn’t take long for Dexter to reach the remaining of the men in white, now kneeling on the floor with their eyes close in an effort to maintain control. Usually, Dexter hated killing people who didn’t fight back; but he hated dying more, and he knew that the others wouldn’t hold the remaining recruits off forever.

The man’s necks made ugly sounds as they broke, soft thuds following when their bodies hit the ground.

Dexter had almost reached the last of the men in white when Saracen called out his name and he whirled around, ready to jump at his partner’s defence when — “What —?”

He didn’t get any further.

Sharp, burning pain shot through his through his leg, and he let out a mangled scream, dropped to his knees.

Fuck. Fuck, it hurt.

He swayed, and someone touched his leg, and then all there was was pain. He vaguely registered someone rushing past him; someone knelt down at his side and then there was Hopeless’s soft voice.

Dexter clenched his hands to fists, nails digging into his palms till he drew blood, his jaw clenched in an effort not to scream; both sensations barely registered. The burning, pain, hell in his leg drowned it all out.

Dexter could feel Hopeless hands hovering over his leg, and wanted to trash out, to tell him to stay away, but then there was something cool, something soothing coming from those hands, and he stilled and bit back a sob of relief.

Gradually, as Hopeless’s magic dulled the pain, his awareness of his surroundings returned. An eerie silence that had fallen over the room, and his vision was still too blurry to make out any details.

Then he heard Skulduggery’s voice, hard, and cold as ice. “You hurt my friend.”

Dexter was aware enough to worry, but not enough to speak, no matter how hard he tried to make a sound.

“Skulduggery —” That was Ghastly. He sounded alarmed, frightened. Good. He was much better equipped for this than Dexter.

He was swaying again.

Then Hopeless hand’s stopped what they were doing; Dexter felt a gust of wind as Hopeless jumped to his feet, heard someone scream “No!”, and then the sound of a gun being fired.

Somewhere behind him, a body hit the ground.

A beat, two of nothing, then the pain in his leg flared up again and Dexter screamed. Hopeless dropped back down besides him in an instant, and resumed whatever he had been doing before, bringing back that blissful, healing cold, and Dexter almost relaxed at that.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Dexter briefly wondered who was speaking, and about what, and to whom, and then Hopeless was speaking to him, and said: “This might hurt a bit.” And then he clenched his fingers around Dexter’s leg.

Dexter screamed. His leg burned. His body burned.

Black and red clouded his vision, and his leg burned and burned and burned.

His throat was raw, and he started kicking and trashing and the pain got worse and worse and worse and then — the black took over. The pain dulled.

Dexter slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

Dexter slowly shifted his weight to his feet. He had to bite back a moan, pain shooting through his leg, and when he tired to push himself off the chair his legs buckled and he fell back down with a startled scream.

Hopeless put the clothes he had been about to stuff into his backpack down with a sigh and turned around to face Dexter. Hopeless’s eyes were rimmed red, and he sounded exhausted. “I told you you can’t walk yet.”

Dexter opened his mouth to protest, but Anton cut him off before he — or Hopeless — had a chance to say anything. His voice sharp, tone impatient. “Quit whining. You’re lucky you still have a leg at all.”

Anton had finished packing ten minutes ago, and now, from his place besides Dexter’s chair, watched the others scuffle around to prepare for their trip. He seemed even more grim than usual, his eyes darker, his voice lower. Whenever someone stop, or even paused, he urged them on, told them to hurry up, and honestly, Dexter couldn’t blame him; not for wanting to leave this place as soon as possible.

“He’s right though,” Larrikin said, pausing in his own packing to look up at Anton. The two of them had stuck together like glue since the fight ended. “This sucks. We’d been promised time off.”

“We’re at war.”

“I know, Anton, just -” Larrikin sighed. “It would’ve been nice to catch a break for once.”

Ghastly frowned, looking between his friends, his gaze finally settling on Dexter. “Maybe I can talk to Corrival.”

Dexter sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “Don’t bother. It wouldn’t work.”

Hopeless paused his packing to look at them again, his jaw clenched, fingers curled around his backpack’s strap.

Ghatsly looked at him, his brows furrowed in concern, then took a step closer, putting one hand on Hopeless’s shoulder: “It wasn’t your fault.”

Hopeless shook his head and stepped back, effectively shaking Ghastly’s hand off. “I should have been able to do something — I knew what they were doing, I could feel it up here.” He tapped his fingers against his temple, then dropped his arms and clenched his hands to fists. “I should have stopped them.”

“There wasn’t anything you could have done,” Larrikin said, and Hopeless head snapped around to stare at him. “They were too many, and we were not prepared — It’s not your fault any more than it was ours. You’re not a sensitive, remember?”

Hopeless let out a deep breath, his shoulders slumping, then tensed again and yelled in frustration, hitting the wall of their quarters with his left hand, still curled into a fist. He snatched his backpack up and stormed out of the room.

The others watched after him in silence. When he was like this, Hopeless was best left to his own devices - if he wanted or needed their help, he would come to them.

Eventually, Anton cleared his throat, looked pointedly around the room. “Everyone done?”

There were nods, quiet murmurs of agreement, and without another word Anton turned on his heels and walked out; Larrikin right beside him. Both of them looked like they would rather be running.

Saracen slung his own backpack over his shoulder, then pulled Dexter up, supporting him on one side, Ghastly taking the other.

When they left their quarters, Skulduggery finally joined them.

This time, as they walked through the premise, there were no excited kids trying to get their attention or just get a look at them, no bright colours, no jokes and laughter.

The stench of death still hang heavy in the air, bodies covered in thin layers of dusts and splatters of blood laying throughout the plain, eyes open, unblinking. Their skin had gone white by now. From inside the building, the Dead Men could still hear sobs and screams, and they could feel both mud and blood sticking to their boots. It was a familiar scenery, and not one they had expected here. Not one that should be here - The wrongness was palatable.

It wasn’t long until they reached the edge of the zone, and left the camp without another look back.

For most of the way Hopeless stomped ahead, his steps angry and forceful, his shoulders tense.

Anton had his arm draped over Larrikin’s shoulder, and that said more about his mental state then his too quiet steps and his too tired eyes. Larrikin pulled him closer.

Dexter was leaning heavily on Saracen and Ghastly. Saracen kept throwing him concerned glance, Ghastly kept turning to look over his shoulder at Skulduggery, his eyes shining with worry. Dexter didn’t have the energy to comment on either.

Skulduggery was trailing behind the others, walking with slow, careful steps as if he didn’t quite trust the ground to hold him. Since the attack he hadn’t said a word, had barely looked at the others, and everyone else had avoided him as well, the image of the kid’s body, the sound of the gun, still too fresh in their minds.

They didn’t talk much, on their walk through the forest, sticking to the necessities.

They were all stuck in their own thoughts.

After a few hours Hopeless’ steps became less vicious and he slowed down enough to give Dexter a pad on the shoulder and check on his leg again.

Even then Skulduggery remained at a steady distance from the group, too steady not to be intentional, and then still when they set up camp for the night, setting his backpack down a good two meters away from the others.

There, Ghastly finally walked up to him. “It’s not your fault, you know?”

Skulduggery didn’t answer.

“You couldn’t have known about this, Skulduggery. There was no way to see this coming.”

Still no answer.

He reached out on instinct, but Skulduggery flinched back from the contact and Ghastly pulled his hand away like he had burned it.

Skulduggery shook his head. Leave me alone.

Ghastly stared at him for a short moment, then sighed: “Fine. But we’ll talk about this tomorrow.” With one last glance at his friend, one more second of hesitation, he got up and walked back closer to the fire, closer to the other men.

Non of them fell asleep easily that night, and Larrikin remained curled up in Anton’s embrace, Saracen and Dexter snuggled close, sharing one blanket; but eventually all of the Dead Men slept.

Except for Skulduggery.

He did not need to sleep, and he did not plan to. Instead, Skulduggery stayed awake, staring into the flames of the camp fire, watched as it slowly fizzle out.

When the last flames died down he rose, quietly, and turned back to the woods.

When the others woke the next morning, Skulduggery was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Irish Gaelic, and, according to google translate, means "Demons".  
> I picked it because I stuck at titles.
> 
> On another note: I don't think I ever finished a story with more than 3k words before -- That's one of the reasons a lot of the editing was done at 3 am on too much coffeine, so if you find any mistakes, please let me know.
> 
> And to the recipient of the story:  
> This isn't actually my first attempt at filling this prompt. I have at least three other ideas saved, most of them much less dark than this one, but also significantly longer once they are finished -- Hitting the deadline would have been absolutely impossible with those.  
> I hope I wrote a story you can enjoy, but if this isn't at all what you wanted (e.g. too dark) let me know and I'll try working out one of the other ideas over the next months.


End file.
